A Drop in Lake Averne
by M.A.Kolb
Summary: A home for my oneshots. Leroux, ALW, ALW Movie, and others to come. Update Sept. 10
1. Searching for Trolls

Chasing a troll...

"Well, the Frisks live right outside the village down that road in a small cottage. Does that help you, sir?" The young Swedish worker asked the portly Frenchman. His French accented, but audible.

"Yes, but I have one more question, how long have they lived there?"

"Well, as long as I can remember. Let's see, they moved hereabouts when I was lad, I would say about thirty some years."

"So they moved here about 1881?" The journalists asked with interest, completely forgetting his one more question promise.

"Give or take," the Swede assented.

"Bless you," the journalist said before moving further down the road in his rented wagon. He had traveled far for this one moment. Here, in the hills of Sweden he found them at long last. The road seemed to go on forever until he came in front of a little house. A woman about fifty years old waited for him, her once blonde hair streaked with gray.

"My husband and I have been waiting for you Monsieur Leroux," she said in perfect French. Madame Frisk turned into the house and called, "the journalist finally made it, Raoul."

AN: Ever had one of those plot bunnies that just bite you? Well, this one bit me and wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it out. So, anytime a plot bunny bites me I am just going to type it out (without much thought) and post it here. No need to comment, just a little something to share.


	2. Balls

Dresses, orchestrations, dancing, jewels, alcohol, and masks, all swirling around the floor of the grand staircase like butterflies. The famous Opera Masquerade Ball, a vortex of color, candles, men, and women.

Christine sighed from her post behind the column. She and Meg watched the fine ladies and gentlemen enter every year. The other ballet rats and stagehands had a drunken revelry in the backstage area, but she and Meg hid and watched longingly at the beautiful ladies. She wanted to go to a ball so badly! All she did in life was dance, eat, dance, rest, dance, and occasionally a singing lesson with the Voice.

She told the Voice about her desire to be a fine lady and swirl the night away. The Voice which had been abnormally talkative that day grew quiet fairly quickly. The Voice even went as far as to forbid her from going! As if she could! No way would a lowly ballet rat, such as her, be asked to such a ball. No, the only parties that would await her would be the lewd, drunken, and loud parties backstage. Someday, when she was a diva, maybe she could go, and have people look at her in awe.

"Daaé!" came a voice from behind her. Madame Giry had found them again. She finds them every year, no matter where they hide. Madame Giry is dressed up in her finest outfit for the ball, she has enough ranking to merit an invitation.

"Christine, go back to the dormitories, maybe next year you can attend," Madame Giry said kindly as she pointed down the hall that Meg had already scurried down. Next year! Oh, Madame Giry, thought Christine. You have been saying that since I was seven!

I will never wear a beautiful dress and dance with my prince at the Opera Populaire's masquerade ball!

* * *

AN: Another random plot bunny when I was thinking about the movie and play. Again, not too much editing, mostly stream of conscious. So, most grammar mistakes will be taken care of, please leave a memo in the in box. 


	3. One by One, We Will Fall

Oh God, the pain was intense. Jacques writhed in his bed with the pain, refusing to cry out. All morphine had been reserved for the officer's use and Jacques was only a lowly infantry man. He took a hit from German artillery several days ago. They were calling the fight the battle of the Marne. Who 'they' were, Jacques did not know. He only tried his best to keep his mind off the pain.

He was dying, he knew that. Pierre had been too cheerful when he visited Jacques; Pierre was never cheerful unless something was wrong.

Good God, why does his leg still hurt? He could have sworn he saw it lying by his head when he regained consciousness in the trenches.

A bit of white caught his eye, a nun. Nuns have been coming to hospitals to help with the shortages of medical personnel. Jacques heard that if you need help, you went to a nun. The orderlies were just waiting for you to die so they can use your bed.

"Sister," Jacques called to the black and white clad nun. "Please, Sister."

The nun heard, she was middle aged at worst and had a mischievous air about her. The nun silently moved to his side.

"Yes, son," the nun whispered. Son, Jacques mused. He hadn't been called 'son' in what seemed like years.

"Please, I need a favor," Jacques whispered, "I need you to write to my girl. I promised her I would write to her and I haven't."

A sudden panic rose in Jacques. Marie! What would happen if he didn't come back? He was all she had! The nun quickly assured him that she would send a letter, if he were to give her the address. The sister had such a motherly air to her it made Jacques wonder if she took her vows after her family was grown. A wave of agony tore through him. The poor sister had a look of terror on her face after seeing the sudden convulsions Jacques went into.

"I can't give you any morphine for the pain, I am so sorry." And Jacques knew she was. He was about to reassure her when she continued, "Let me tell you a story to keep your mind off the pain."

Jacques loved stories. He shut his eyes and let her mellifluous voice pour over him. A wonderful story she spun to him about a deformed genius, a young singer, and a lord. He never opened his eyes again.

Sister Margaret, or Little Giry as she was known in her youth, sighed. Something about that boy made her tell him the tale of her friend, Christine Daaé. She moved away from the bed, it was only September but she felt a cold. This war would last for much longer than she expected. She marked down Jacques' time of death to record for his family. September 13, 1914.

* * *

The First Battle of the Marne ended on September 10, 1914, but I gave Jacques a few extra days so that gangrene set in. World War I was from 1914-1918. This drabble was inspired by the novel _All Quiet on the Western Front_ by Erich Maria Remarque. Comments welcomed. 


	4. Papa Usually Won

She couldn't sleep. It was past the midnight hour and she still didn't feel the least bit tired. To the outsider, there was no plausible reason. She was in a warm nightgown, under a comforter of down feathers. It was to be expected, though, considering that for the past four years of her life, Christine slept curled up next to her father. Even though Papa has been sick for the past year with a cough, he still let her curl up next to him. Now, Mama Valerius had the nerve to tell her that she couldn't sleep next to her papa.

Christine shook her golden curls in frustration. She was usually a meek child, but this made her mad! Christine crawled out of that soft bed to find her father. She tiptoed down the hall to her father's room and quietly cracked the door open to make sure no pesky doctors were there. She was surprised to find it empty; she pushed the door open even further in hopes of finding her father, but to no avail. Where could Papa be, if not in bed? He hadn't had the strength to sit up in several weeks, let alone get out of bed!

Acting unusually mulish, Christine went off to find her father. She peeked into every room she came across, and nimbly hid in the nooks when a servant walked by. Frustration was building in the small Swede until she found him. He was curiously sleeping in the parlor. It was an odd place to sleep, but Papa, sometimes, was an odd man. Gaily, Christine crawled on the floor to her father. They used to play this game before Papa became ill, who could sneak up on whom first? Papa usually won, but Christine savored the few times she was able to catch him unawares.

Within a foot of her father's resting place, Christine suddenly stood up. She noticed that her father was lying in an odd sort of shallow container. It was made of smooth wood and shaped vaguely on the shape of an octagon. This intimidating box made Christine pause her game. What could it be? Then, it occurred to Christine with a laugh. It was some sort of treatment of Papa's illness. The doctors tried many curious treatments on Papa; Christine winkled her nose when she remembered her father smoking a pipe with cow feces in it, what is to stop them from using this?

With an impish smile, Christine crawled up in the box next to her Papa and fell quickly fell asleep.

In the morning, Mama Valerius was horrified to find her Swedish Angel curled up next to the corpse of her father.

AN: This won 19th place out of 25 over at PFN. I am so proud of this story, because my morbid muse was on holiday in Majorca and didn't help.


	5. Backstage Party

"You smell like Buquet," Christine announced to Babette.

"Come on down! The party is just beginning!" A severely inebriated Babette called to Christine, who was only a meter away.

"Mama won't be happy."

"Mme. Giry said to stay in the dormitories! She even scheduled early morning practice!" Christine called to the swiftly descending Babette.

"Mme. Giry! Mme. Giry! Christine Daaé you are how many years old? You don't need to listen to Mme. Giry."

"Go! And tell me what its like. Besides, we already spied on the front ball. The back party should be much more exciting!" Meg encouraged.

"Come with me?" Christine implored.

" Mama will know. You would get in less trouble. Just go for an hour, you will be fine for rehearsal."

"But my teacher won't be happy. The Voice said-"

"How will 'the Voice' know? Go!"

Christine's emotions warred on her face for a minute. Finally a smile broke out.

"All right," Christine said as she changed and put on shoes.

"Only an hour Christine! Don't leave me alone with the children for too long. And be careful."

"I will!" Christine promised as she ran after Babette.

" 'Bout time, love! I have people to introduce you to," Babette said, swinging her arm over Christine's shoulder and swaying.

The hour passed almost faster than Christine could comprehend. There was wild dancing with the fly boys, laughter with the costumiers, and the male dancers were having a drinking contest. The major dame through the party was keeping Armand, or 'mini-Piangi' as the company dubbed him, from looking up the girl's skirts.

"Here poppet! Have a drink." Babette yelled over the din.

"What is it?" Christine shouted back.

"The Russians call it 'sour water,'" Christine accepted the drink and downed it. Almost immediately she came up spewing. "It burns!" Christine said as she struggled to breath.

"Of course it does! Carolus! Come 'ere." Babette called as she pushed through the crowd to the baritone.

"Here is a refill!" Buquet said as he came up and drunkenly hugged her.

"No, thank you monsieur," Christine declined.

"Drink it up!" Buquet crowed as he forced the drink down her throat, spilling it over her face.

"My eyes!" Christine shouted as the liquor spilled into them. She stumbled away from Buquet wiping her eyes. She stumbled around trying to get away so she could properly wipe them without being an obstacle for drunks. Thankfully, there was an unoccupied prop room near by. Tears poured down her face, in a vain attempt to lubricate her injured irises.

A soft opening and closing noise was made to her left.

"Hello?" Christine called, "Who is there?"

"Mademoiselle, are you hurt?" A soft male voice inquired to her right.

Christine spun to her right to attempt to face her companion. "A little, just my eyes and hurt, thank you."

"How did that happen?" This time the voice was on the opposite side of the room.

"Some liquor spilled into my eye at the party, you see and-"

"You attended the party?" The voice, suddenly harsh, asked. He seemed to be right behind her now.

"I-I," Christine stuttered.

"Never attended the Populaire's New Years ball alone!" The voice scolded, still behind her.

"I-I'm sorry," Christine apologized, not knowing what to say.

A sigh.

"Give me your hand, I will lead you to your dormitory," the voice said, kind again.

"Thank you, Monsieur,"

The man took her hand in his soft glove and led her away.

"Excuse me , Monsieur, but why aren't we going through the party?" Christine asked several moments later when the sounds of the party died away.

A harsh chuckle came from her helper. "And give them another chance to give you drink?"

"Babette is my friend!" Christine claimed.

"I would like to believe that a friend would not pour spirits on her friend's face."

"Babette didn't! Buquet did and it was an accident," Christine defended.

The man stopped, causing Christine to hit his back.

"Buquet did this?"

"Monsieur, please just take me to my room," Christine pleaded.

Once more, a sigh.

"You are at the end of the stairs. I am sure Mlle. Giry will assist you. Keep your eyes covered, I imagine the light might hurt them."

"The light hurt? Why?"

There was a pause before her helper answered. "The light is not the friend you believe it to be. Good night, Mlle. Daaé."

"Christine? Is that you?" called Meg.

"Yes, yes it is," Christine said as she felt her way up the stairs.

* * *

"I never learned his name. I can't believe I forgot to ask." Christine said the next morning.

"Maybe you will meet him today."

"I don't know, I don't think I have met him before."

"Oh well, I am going to get something to eat, are you coming?" Meg asked.

"You know I don't eat until noon."

"Oh yes your mysterious alone time at the chapel," Meg said shaking her hands in the air, though she knew all about Christine's voice.

"Don't make fun," Christine said as she left Meg to go down to the chapel.

Meg's laughter echoed the corridor.

Christine walked into the chapel.

"Good day, Christine. How are you?" The Voice asked, in its velvety tone.

* * *

This is the almost sequel to one of my other shorts, in which Christine and Meg spy on the New Years Ball. I wondered what it would be like for naive Christine to be at the back party. I would think The Phantom would be most displeased. The alcohol in the eyes is a bit of creative license but I would imagine hard liquor would hurt pretty bad and obscure the vision.

Reviews feed me.


	6. Death of a Dream

1"Here is your costume, my dear," Mme. Giry said as she roused Christine.

"What?" Christine asked sleepily.

"For Il Muto, I have brought you your costume, it is on the chair."

"Thank you, Madame," Christine said as Mme. Giry left the room.

Christine stretched as she thought about the peculiar events of last night. Her Angel of Music is the Phantom of the operea! How unexpected. Christine realized that she should feel some sort of surprise or even anger but she felty strangely empty. Maybe she more than metaphorically gave him her soul.

It was no matter. She had triumphed at the gala and that thought suddenly gave her wings. Finally! She could fulfill her father's dreams of triumph. Christine gave a little laugh as she spun about.

Her? A diva? A poor country girl from Sweden? Dreams do come true! And Il Muto being perfromed so soon! Good thing the Angel of Music or Phantom or whoever made sure that she knew the part!

Smiling, she made her way to the chair to put on the underdress. Surely, that is what Mme. Giry brought. The costume of the Countess is too immense for one person to put on alone.

The pageboy cosutme lay on the chair.

"What?" Christine whispered. "No."

She triumphed! She would be the Countess!

"No!"she said as she pulled the pieces of the costume apart, holding up the trousers.

A small pamphlet fell to the floor.

**Il Muto**

**The Countess...La Carlotta**

**The Cuckolded Man...Ubaldo Piangi**

**The Mute...Christine Daaé**

**The Confidante...Cecile Morelli**

**The Maid...Meg Giry**

The Mute! The Mute!

"No!" Christine cried as she was overcome with sobs.

Oh, God, dreams die so hard.

"Papa! I'm sorry!"

* * *

Inspired entirely by the crestfallen look on Emmy Rossum's face during Prima Donna. I just had to get it out of my head. So many 2004 movie one shots! I guess it is because I am so involved with the Leroux story I am working on thatI find thisas a bit of a break. 


	7. Past Lives

"Meg."

"Yeah, Chris?"

"Do you believe in past lives?" Christine asked.

"Not really."

"Not really? It was a yes or no answer."

"Well, I find it weird that I could be like, Gandhi, in my past life or something." Meg answered, turning to face Christine, "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I just had the most vivid dream and I think it was of my past life."

"Dream? When? Any cute guys?" Meg asked, alert.

"When the sandbag hit my head last week."

"Chris, you were out for like two minutes," Meg answered in disbelief.

Christine sat up from the couch she called home in Meg's apartment.

"But I dreamt that I was Siebel in _Faust_ and there was some diva named Carlotta and I was having voice lessons from a voice behind my mirror. The voice who is really a guy and lives under, that is right, under the opera house! Oh, I also sang _The Jewel Song_, because some guy was found dead in Carlotta's closet and she threw this gigantic hissy fit."

"Chris," Meg tried to interrupt.

"Did I mention I was in London? I was. I also visited my dad's grave, whose name is Phillip, which is absurd because my dad's name is Sean!"

"Chris!" Meg shouted.

"What?"

"This is just some dream, some odd hallucination! A bastardization of _Phantom of the Opera_! You couldn't possibly have remembered that in two minutes."

"I guess."

"Seriously Chris, I just think that you are overworked, not that you work."

"I work," Christine defended.

"Dude, you turned down a part in that company. Do you have any idea how much they were going to pay you? Why didn't you take it?"

"You have just been waiting to ask that, haven't you?"

"Yes!" Her manager cried.

"The financial backer freaked me out. He was the one who killed Richard!"

"Who in the hell is Richard, and why would Mr. Foster kill him?"

"My fiancée!"

"Chris," Meg started as if speaking to a stupid child, "you don't have a fiancée. You haven't dated in like five years."

"Never mind."

A moment passed.

"Chris."

"Yeah?"

"You're an idiot for turning down that position."

"I know."

* * *

Not my best, but I wanted to take a break from being a watch dog on anachronisms. 1989 Meg and Christine gave me a nice respite. Besides, I relish using dude 'legally' in fanfic.

For the extremely confused, this is 1989 Robert Englund _Phantom of the Opera_ verse.

Reviews make my day! Seriously, it is sad how much they do. Especially since I can see how many people read my story and don't review.


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